


I'll Ease Your Mind

by scribefindegil



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Relativity Falls, Filk, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, The Power Of Mabel, the power of hot chocolate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 12:23:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8800666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribefindegil/pseuds/scribefindegil
Summary: Bill's gone, the disastrous puppet show is over, and Ford can't sleep.
Relativity Falls post-Sock Opera.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sock 'n Roll](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7384201) by [azhdarchidaen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azhdarchidaen/pseuds/azhdarchidaen). 



> Inspired specifically by tumblr user aroford's Relativity Falls version of Sock Opera, "Sock 'n Roll" (which this should be linked to if I set things up right.) Also inspired by wanting to hug my niblings but being stymied by geography.
> 
> The song Mabel sings is "Seas Of Space" by Suzette Haden Elgin.

Ford couldn’t sleep. Not that insomnia was anything new; he’d been plagued by it for as long as he could remember. But this was different. He could feel his eyes growing red and heavy and his head ached, which despite everything else was at least partially from exhaustion. He _couldn’t_ sleep. Couldn’t let himself.

He was supposed to wake up every three hours tonight anyway, so it wasn’t like it really mattered. Surely it was better to just not sleep at all. Then they’d know for sure that he didn’t have a concussion.

He could hear Stan snoring softly from where his brother was sitting propped against Ford’s bed. The baseball bat that had originally been held across his knees had fallen to the floor. “I’ll protect you!” he’d insisted when Ford first expressed reticence about going to sleep. He was probably still feeling guilty about that punch.

Ford had . . . well, no, he hadn’t tried to sleep. He’d pretended, until he heard Stan’s breathing soften and even out, and then he’d opened his eyes and stared straight at the ceiling. Bill might have been exorcised from his body, but the only way he could think of to really keep a dream demon out of your head was to not dream. And the only way he knew to make sure he didn’t dream was to make sure he didn’t sleep. He’d been stupid and gullible, let his guard down and nearly lost everything. He’d be sure not to make that mistake again.

He heard a noise outside the door and lay back, hastily closing his eyes. The door scraped open and he heard Grauntie Mabel enter the room, then chuckle softly. She must have seen Stan.

Ford tried to match his brother’s breathing as Mabel approached. A hand closed around his shoulder and shook him gently. “Rise and shine, nerdling,” Mabel called. Ford groaned and rolled over, fluttering his eyes open.

Mabel frowned at him. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” muttered Ford, hoping his tiredness would mask his complete inability to lie convincingly. He needed Stan for that.

Mabel peered at his face. “You haven’t slept a wink, have you?”

“I . . .” Ford began, but Mabel had already scooped him up and started out of the room. She ignored his indignant grumbles and she carried him downstairs to the kitchen, finally setting him down at the table.

“If you’re not going to sleep anyway, you might as well have some hot chocolate,” she said matter-of-factly. “I doubt it will help much with that bruised noggin of yours, but it’s not going to hurt, especially when it’s my extra special recipe.”

“No glitter, please,” mumbled Ford.

Mabel shrugged. “Suit yourself. Now, are you going to tell me what happened?”

Ford stared at the wood grain of the table. Hot chocolate or no hot chocolate, if he was going to be interrogated he’d rather stay in bed. Then at least the only person questioning his choices was him.

“Grauntie Mabel, we told you,” he said. “It was an accident.”

She grunted, unconvinced.

Ford had grown up thinking that hot chocolate, while delicious, was usually a spur-of-the-moment thing. You just needed hot water and the packet of powder. If you were Stanley, sometimes you skipped out on the water altogether and ate the mix straight. And sure, there was a big canister of hot chocolate mix sitting on top of the fridge, but that was only for emergencies when she didn’t have the time to make it properly. Grauntie Mabel’s hot chocolate was a _production_.

Ford watched blearily as she measured out milk into a copper-bottomed pot and set it to heat on the stove, pulled out sugar and cinnamon sticks and a block of fancy dark chocolate and her homemade vanilla extract and began measuring and chopping and mixing away. He was relieved to see that she seemed to have listened to him about the glitter; the usual display of sparkling canisters was nowhere to be seen. He’d probably consumed more glitter in the last month and a half than most people did in their lifetimes.

“So,” said Mabel, whisking the chopped chocolate into a cup of hot water. “You don’t wanna talk about it. That’s fair. Just be sure an’ let your old Grauntie know if there’s anything she can do to help stop these ‘accidents’ from happening again. This ain’t the first one you’ve had, and that excuse is starting to sound mighty flat.”

Ford kicked at the legs of the table and didn’t look up. “I’m just clumsy,” he muttered, so quietly that he half-hoped she wouldn’t be able to hear him. “. . . And stupid.”

“Hey now.” Mabel slid the measuring-spoon drawer shut with a swing of her hip. “Keep that up and you might make it in the family business after all. That’s the most straight-faced lie you’ve told all summer!”

“It’s not—”

“The kind of lie you should be telling,” Mabel interrupted. “Not even to yourself. Especially not to yourself, come to think of it. You’ve got no common sense, Stanford, and you’re stubborn as the day is long—and we just passed the Solstice, so it’s very—but, pumpkin, you’re not stupid.”

“I’m too weird to be a pumpkin,” Ford muttered.

Mabel put her hands on her hips. “Fine, then. Spaghetti squash? Zucchini? You want me to call you my little mystery hybrid winter squash, ‘cause I’ll do it!”

When Ford didn’t even crack a smile, Mabel frowned and lowered the heat of the stove. She came and sat next to him, ruffling his hair. “Come on, sweetie. What’s the matter?”

To Ford’s shame, his lower lip was beginning to tremble. “I m-messed everything up,” he managed. And now he was making it worse. He wasn’t supposed to fall apart like this.

“ _Everything_ seems like a pretty tall order, hon,” said Mabel gently. “You’ve got your family, for one. I care about ya. Your brother cares about ya. You’d have to work pretty hard to mess that up.”

They were interrupted by hurrying footsteps and Stan burst into the kitchen, brandishing his bat in one hand. He caught sight of Ford and Mabel and deflated.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re here.”

“. . . Yes,” said Ford. He wasn’t sure what else to say.

“You worried, huh?” Mabel asked.

Stan lowered the bat to his side, doing his best to look nonchalant. “Noooooooo,” he said. “I just . . . I knew you two must be havin’ a hot chocolate party without me, and I wasn’t gonna miss it by being asleep.”

Mabel raised one eyebrow, but she didn’t try to argue. “Well, you’re just in time to crash the party. Knew we couldn’t pull one over on ol’ manly Stanley here. Pull up a chair!”

As Mabel finished whisking all the ingredients together, Stan nudged Ford with his foot.

“You okay, bro?”

Ford almost snapped at him, like he’d snapped at Mabel the previous morning. Instead he sighed. “I . . . don’t know.”

“You gonna be okay?”

Ford took advantage of Mabel returning with two large, steaming mugs of cocoa to avoid answering the question. Was he going to be okay? He didn’t know. He didn’t know what would happen if he fell asleep, or if Bill came back, or if he messed up again. The mystery hunting had been fun, and exciting, and made him feel special, but now he felt very small and very scared and he hated it.

He wrapped his hands around the mug in front of him. It was pink and the handle was shaped like a flamingo.

“Aaaand marshmallows, whipped cream, sprinkles, and glitter for those as wants it!” Mabel declared.

“Ooooh,” said Stan, reaching for the cream.

Ford dropped three marshmallows into his mug and watched them dissolve. Mabel had decked out her mug with a picture-perfect dollop of cream and what was for her a shockingly restrained topping of blue sanding sugar and silver star glitter. Stan looked like he’d gotten into a fight with the jar of rainbow sprinkles.

Despite himself, Ford laughed as Stan tried, unsuccessfully, to lick the sprinkles off his nose.

Mabel ruffled his hair. “Havin’ fun, weirdo?” she asked. Ford was shocked at how much affection she could fit into a word he’d always considered an insult.

Stan grinned at her hugely, then squawked as his hot chocolate began to overflow. He hurried to lick up the drips.

“Real classy,” Ford laughed.

“Hey,” Stan retorted, “This is quality stuff. I’m not lettin’ it go to waste!”

“Now Stanley,” said Mabel, “You know that suck-up contest ended weeks ago.” She slurped the layer of cream off her own hot chocolate. “I say we take this party into the living room where there’s cozier seating. These old bones aren’t what they used to be!”

They settled in the old overstuffed armchair. For a while Stan and Mabel bickered about whether they should watch _Unnecessary Explosions_ or the _Xtreme Knitting Channel_ , but since nobody wanted to get up and find the remote, it turned out to be a moot point.

Ford snuggled deeper into his corner of the chair. His belly was warm and full, and on the other side of the chair Stan was already half-asleep. Mabel had one arm draped across his shoulders, heavy and comforting, and he could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his back.

He didn’t notice his eyes drooping shut, didn’t notice his hands begin to go limp until he felt Mabel’s arm shift around him. He jerked upright just in time to see her catch his mug and move it to the side table.

“I’m sorry!” If Mabel hadn’t caught it, it would have smashed. He knew it was one of her favorites, too.

Ford dug his knuckles into his eyes. He had to stay awake. If he fell asleep Bill might come back. He didn’t know how the deals worked, if there really were any rules to them at all. Bill might hurt him again. Or worse, hurt his family. Use him to hurt his family. The Journal had said “Trust No One,” but he couldn’t even trust _himself_ . . .

And now the tears were starting again. He hung his head, hoping that Mabel wouldn’t see.

He was sure she did, but instead of saying anything she just stroked his hair and then began, very softly, to sing. Mabel sang constantly, snatches of old pop songs and show tunes and little improvisations about whatever she happened to be doing at the moment. This wasn’t a song that Ford had heard before. He recognized the tune, but the words were strange. It was some kind of space lullaby, sadder than the things Mabel normally sang.

Mabel’s voice was warm and resonant and a little scratchy, like an old butcher-block counter that had been used for years. It filled up the room like lamplight, steady and golden and comforting. It washed over the constant screaming chatter of Ford’s thoughts and it didn’t make them go away, but it dulled them the way white noise generators dulled the sound of sirens.

“I’ll hold you close,” Mabel sang, squeezing Ford’s shoulders. “I’ll ease your mind . . .”

Ford leaned into the embrace. Mabel smelled like wool and hot chocolate, and he could feel the strength in her arms and the tenderness in her voice. A tear ran down the edge of his nose. He felt . . . safe. He felt safe even though he’d spent all day thinking he’d never feel safe again.

When his eyes began to droop again, he didn’t fight it. The soft strains of the melody washed over him, lulling the tension out of his body. He’d dream of space, and singing, and family. He’d dream of being loved.

Ford slept.

 


End file.
